Empire's End

by Chris Bunch

  Next, Sten would strike for the heart of the Empire and the Emperor himself.

  Chapter Nineteen

  THE GREAT FLEETS of the rebellion rendezvoused in interstellar emptiness near a monstrous whirlpool galaxy. Emptiness—but emptiness very close to Prime World and the heart of the Empire.

  There were thousands of ships. Zaginows. Cal'gata. Honjo. Bhor. Other ships from beings, cultures, worlds, even star clusters, Sten had never heard of. Systems' entire navies had joined the rebel forces. Squadrons had "deserted" en masse. Other ships, and even in some cases individual beings, had found their solitary way to the rising.

  Sten sometimes wondered at their motives. Gold? Gods? Glory? Perhaps sometimes a burning, inchoate sense of injustice, a desire to end the Empire's tyranny. It had taken generations and centuries, but at last the hammer had lost its velvet padding.

  The indicator lights in the battle chamber of the Victory now represented fleets instead of ships.

  But less than one-tenth of the Empire was now in open revolt.

  Sten thought that might be enough.

  The orders went out. The rebellion would move into the Empire's heart, ostensibly making an attack on Prime itself. Before they could attack the Empire's capital, Imperial fleets would certainly come out to stop them.

  That would be, Sten prayed, the final battle.

  The real objective was not Prime at all, but the fleets themselves. Once the Empire's ability to wage war was crippled, Prime and any other world could be easily attacked, seized, isolated, or ignored.

  It would be, his own sense as well as his staff's analyses, a near-run victory. Estimates were, given the present level of forces and that the rebellion had thus far maintained a tactical edge, 61 percent to 39 percent, favoring a victory for Sten. Expected casualties would be a staggering 35 percent of the rebellion's forces.

  But blood was the argument, and there appeared to be no peaceful alternatives.

  So be it.

  "So the traitor is moving," the Eternal Emperor said. What might have been a smile moved his lips, then disappeared.

  "Yessir," Admiral de Court said. "Just as your estimate and our progs said." De Court was one of the seven computer-brained admirals that the Imperial Times said had taken early retirement. In fact, they had been detached for special duties and were serving as a shadow general staff directly under the Eternal Emperor himself.

  Their role would never be known, of course. None of the seven would be disloyal enough to mention that the final obliteration of Sten came from the brilliance of anyone besides the Emperor.

  They were not disloyal… or suicidal.

  Admiral de Court did not appear pleased that the anticipated events were, in fact, occurring.

  "What are the numbers," the Eternal Emperor asked.

  "Fifty-one percent chance of Imperial victory."

  "That is all?" The Emperor was startled.

  "Yessir. Too many Imperial elements lack real battle experience. Or else they're relatively new formations."

  "I ordered the secret mobilization months ago."

  De Court was silent. Not even the Eternal Emperor could create Weddigens or Golden Hind's simply by the laying on of hands.

  "Anticipated casualties?"

  "Well over 70 percent."

  A long silence. Then, "Acceptable."

  De Court licked dry lips. He'd been chosen, as the most diplomatically gifted of the technocrat-admirals, to handle this presentation.

  "One other thing, sir. We have two single progs, not entirely quantifiable, but a probability estimation of approximately 82 percent, that the traitor Sten will be killed in this battle. And—and yourself, as well."

  The Emperor was very quiet.

  "Sir."

  Still nothing. Then, finally, "Thank you," the Eternal Emperor said. "You're dismissed."

  Scoutboats, then destroyers, then light cruisers met between the galaxies in a sudden snarl of blood. Ships swirled, launched missiles, took hits, died.

  The engagement was all the bloodier because it was unexpected.

  "So the bastard mousetrapped us," Sten hissed.

  "I wouldn't put it that baldly," Preston said. "But the Emperor hasn't just been sitting there waiting for us."

  Kilgour was in a glower of rage.

  "Skip," he said. "Ah dinnae ken whae's th' matter wi' our Intel. But Ah'll hae some gonads frae breakfast kippers. Later. A' th' mo, Ah dinnae hae time frae 'crim'nations. Th' sit's as follows:

  "Th' Emp's got its fleets already mob'lized, aye? I's nae a total disast'r, unlike th' Emp mos' likely thinks it't' be. But it'll noo be a bonnie prog."

  "GA," Sten said.

  "We'll trash th' clots. Est 80 percent a' th' Imps'll nae see home again. But wi' a price. We'll take 75 percent hits ourselves. I's a Kilkenny cat's war, lad.

  "But we'll mos' likely kill th' Emp i' the bloodbath. An', same prob'ility, die i' th' doin't."

  Sten nodded.

  He stared at, but did not see, the screens as he ran his own set of numbers.

  He would probably die in this battle in the galactic dark. Very well. Sten was surprised he could accept that with a certain equanimity—or at least he had fooled his mind into thinking that.

  At least the Eternal Emperor would die, as well.

  And the Imperial forces would be shattered.

  But a navy could be rebuilt.

  Especially if—and he'd completely accepted Haines's verification of Mahoney's improbable theory—the Emperor would return. Return, and be handed the throne in exchange for the resumption of AM2.

  The Emperor would be gone for at least three, possibly six, E-years. During which time the "civilized" universe would sink further into chaos. And then a madman would return, slashing out to regain his kingdom. A fifth horseman of the apocalypse.

  How long would it take for another rebellion? A rebellion that wasn't aimed at the New Boss replacing the Old Boss? A rebellion unlike the Tahn war or the Mueller Rising before that?

  No.

  Sten issued orders, then retreated to the solitude of the Victory's admiral's walk. The rebels were to take a defensive posture. He could not—would not—allow the projected orgy of mutual destruction to occur. Not when it would be unlikely to completely excise this tumor that called himself the Eternal Emperor.

  No. If necessary, they could retreat. Regroup. Rethink. Or, in a worst-case scenario, follow the example of countless liberation forces through the centuries—dump arms, go to ground, and try again.

  Hell, Sten thought. If this is where it ends, I can disappear into the woodwork. Change my face, change my name, and try again.

  The next time, by myself.

  The next time, with a bomb or a longarm.

  No surrender, Sten promised himself. But now it's time to keep the beings who followed you from dying.

  Inaction, his mind told him. Retreat. Passivity.

  No other options occurred.

  He thought of alk, or stregg. Neither was acceptable. He slumped into a chair. Stared out at the kaleidoscope that was hyperspace.

  Seconds… minutes… hours… centuries later, the com blatted at him.

  Sten slapped the switch and started to growl. Stopped himself. It was Alex onscreen, his face and voice carefully bland.

  "Com 'cast frae th' Imperial forces," he said, without preamble. "Tightbeam. On a freq thae Freston says is exclusive't' th' Emperor. An' th' Victory's one ae th' few ships wi' th' capability't' receive it. Y' recollect the Emp built this ship frae his own use?"

  "Do you have a point of origin?"

  "Ah dinnae, Sten. Noo frae any listed world. Frae a ship, Ah reck. Wi' th' Imperial forces, Ah'd guess.

  "An… i's en clair. Vid an' voice. Wi' a card sayin't it's f r y'r eyes only."

  Sten started to order it to be transmitted to his com, then caught himself. No. Even at this time, at this moment before the storm, it would not be unlikely for the Eternal Emperor to transmit something meaningless—and then le
ak the story that the message contained private instructions from the Emperor to one of his double agents.

  "Hang on," Sten ordered. "I'm on my way down. Set it up for projection on the bridge."

  "Boss? Are y' sure?"

  "Hell, yes. I'm getting too old to play games. Stand by."

  The screen showed the Eternal Emperor. He was standing alone on the awe-inspiring bridge of a warship. The Durer. He wore a midnight-black uniform with his symbol in gold on his breast—the letters AM2 superimposed over the null-element's atomic structure.

  "This message is intended for Sten, and only for him.

  "Greetings.

  "Once you were my most faithful servant. Now you have declared yourself my most deadly enemy. I do not know why. I thought you served me well, and so I made you ruler over many things, and thought that would bring you joy. Evidently it did not

  "And I have seen, to my great sorrow, that some of my subjects believe themselves to be ignored, believe they have been somehow slighted, in spite of my efforts to help them as best I can in these troubled times.

  "I could reason, I could argue, I could attempt to present a larger view of the chaos that looms before all of us in the Empire.

  "But I shall not. Perhaps some of my satraps have enforced their own immoralities under the cover of my rule, which has always been intended to provide the maximum benefit to all beings, human and otherwise, a rule of peace and justice that began before time was recorded and, with the goodwill of my fellow citizens, will continue until time itself must have a stop.

  "Beings—many of them my good and faithful servants—have died. Died in this murderous squabble that history will not even dignify with a footnote. It shall not be remembered because I propose a solution, a solution that no one could argue with.

  "You, Sten, say that my rule is autocratic. Dictatorial, even. Very well.

  "I invite you to share that rule.

  "Not as a co-ruler, because you, or those who rose in rebellion with you, could well define that as a cheap attempt at bribery. At co-option.

  "No. I propose a full and complete sharing of power between myself, my Parliament, and you and your chosen representatives, in whatever form we agree to be the most representative and just.

  "I further propose an immediate truce, to avoid further bloodshed. This truce will be of short duration, so that neither side can argue it is being used as a device to seek an advantageous position to destroy the other. I would accept two E-weeks as an outside figure.

  "At the end of that time, you and I should meet. We should meet with our best advisers and allies, to prepare the grounds for this new and promising time for the Empire.

  "I further suggest that our meeting ground be on Seilichi, the home planet of the most respected, most neutral, and most peaceful beings this universe has ever known, the Manabi. I would also ask that their most honored savant, Sr. Ecu, mediate our negotiations.

  "I ask you, Sten, as an honorable being, to accept my most generous offer.

  "Now, only you can keep innocent blood from showering the stars."

  And the screen went blank.

  A blast of babble on the Victory's bridge. Then silence, as everyone turned to look at Sten. Son of a bitch, he thought. He has us.

  And there's no way out. No way whatsoever.

  Chapter Twenty

  STEN RUBBED TIRED eyes and tried to think. He hadn't gotten a lot of sleep in the past two weeks. What little he'd had time for had been constantly interrupted by messengers, coms, and delegations arriving from his allies. Even his thoughts, when he was alone with Cind, yammered at him.

  Cind had run everyone out twenty hours ago, and forced Sten to take a sopor. He had slept hard, but not well.

  Now, he was in his final briefing. His allies had presented what they wanted and expected in this Brave New World of Powersharing, a certain percentage of which was either wishful thinking or else shouldn't be mentioned until the transition was complete. And that last assumption was well up there with progging the belled cat…

  The briefing, like everything else about Sten and the rebellion, was irregular, consisting less of those with the clout than the old guard. Himself. Kilgour. Cind. Rykor. Even Otho, who at least could be counted on to provide the nonsubtle touch.

  Sten wished Sr. Ecu could have been present, or could at least have monitored this session. But no one could chance even the vague possibility the Emperor would discover the Manabi and Sten were in collusion.

  The Victory, escorted by five cruisers and eleven destroyers, was orbiting an unpopulated world less than twenty light-years from Seilichi.

  Not that there was much to say in this meeting—it'd all been gone over time and again. Sten wondered about Alex, who'd been unnaturally quiet for the past few days, keeping his own counsel.

  Sten poured a glass of herbal/protein drink, and sipped. He shuddered at its taste. Why were things that were supposedly good for you so frequently abominable?

  "I wonder," he said, "just how long it will be before the Emperor double-crosses us?"

  "It will depend," Rykor said, "on how we handle the first crisis after the Emperor grudgingly moves over on his throne to allow your presence, whatever it might be. If our solution coincides with the Emperor's, and in no way detracts from the perception that he alone really holds the reins of power… two E-years from that date.

  "If there is a divergence of views, and ours becomes the plan operated on… three cycles.

  "In any event, there will be an attempted counterrevolution within five E-years, either planned by the Eternal Emperor himself or, possibly, honestly mounted by his loyalists.

  "But we should be, given foresight and proper planning, as well as an ocean and a half of pure luck, able to survive the first attempt to destroy the new government."

  "All those estimates," Sten said dryly, "give the coalition more time than we would have if we'd accepted battle. Time enough to figure how we're going to RF the Emperor before he does it to us."

  Kilgour shook his head. "Ah'll noo be rain't on th' marchpast, but Ah'm sittin' here rec'lectin' a place called Glencoe, a clan called Campbell, an' a pol named Dalrymple."

  "Which means?" Otho rumbled.

  "Naethin' 'cept m' own buddin't fears, lad. Whae dealin't wi' a madman, y' cannae use logic."

  "We've gone through this before," Sten said. "The Emperor is hardly going to try a double cross now. He proposed the meet in the first place, so it'd be his flag of truce that'd be dishonored. Of course he's mad, and of course he wants my skin for his drumhead—but he certainly would not try anything while we're all under the protection of the Manabi."

  A com whispered, and Alex crossed to it and read the message onscreen. He keyed an answer and blanked it.

  "Ver' well," he said. "Y'r ride't' th' conference's inbound."

  "And why will we not descend from the Victory!" Otho asked. "Should Sten arrive like a beardless one? Perhaps on a trading ship?"

  "Close," Alex agreed. "He'll be usin't a transport. Ah' bor-row'd a liner frae th' Zaginows. An' dinnae be sayin't 'we,' less y' think Sten hae a mousie i' his pocket. Sten'll be descendin' ae a man of peace, which i' whae we want ae th' perception frae all. Aye, Rykor?"

  Rykor wallowed in her vat, considering.

  "How dimwitted of me," she said. "And I am the being who prides herself on not automatically making assumptions. Yet I've always taken for granted Sten would land from the Victory, properly escorted by his allies.

  "However… what exactly do you propose, Sr. Kilgour?"

  "Sten arrives on Seilichi wi' but one aide. M'self. We'll hae a tightbeam frae th' liner't' the Vick, which we'll hae offworld, an' well awa' frae th' Emp's fleets.

  We'll nae look like bloody-handed rebels, but ae wee an' Ah do mean wee, peacelovers, i' y' ken. Dav'd agin' th' Phar'sees, or howe'er thae tale goes.

  It'll make a braw point, frae th' livie crews, Ah wager."

  Rykor closed her eyes and ran the visuals. Yes. It would look impr
essive. Sten, one small man standing victoriously against the Emperor.

  "Rykor, we'll hae y'rself oop here, listenin't't' all thae haps, an' keepin't ae clear mind."

  Cind was on her feet. "Sten isn't going down there without any escort."

  "Well spok't," Alex said. "But he will. Y'r Bhor an' th' Gurks cannae stand up't' a laserblast frae a battlewagon. An' thae's noo point i' a martial show, solely't' be showin't th' size ae our claymores, noo is there, lass?"

  Cind was about to go on—but Alex moved his head slightly to the side. She stopped cold.

  Sten, too, was looking at Kilgour. Alex just stared back, expressionless. Ah, Sten, thought. And is there any harm if he's right?

  "We'll do it Alex's way," Sten said, before Otho could come in with a bellowed rejoinder.

  "The Emperor wears plain dress whites when everybody else is in full dress uniform. We'll play another version of the same card."

  "Somebody grab one of my dogsbodies, and make sure I've got a Boy Virgin Outfit. Now, I'm going to run everyone out. I want something disgustingly dull to eat and some more sleep. We're ready."

  Sr. Ecu hovered in the center of the huge landing field within the "crater" of the Guesting Center. His senses were at their finest tune. This meeting, and the subsequent series of conferences, could be not just the culmination of his own life, but that of the Manabi as well.

  His race had always viewed the Emperor, and Empire, with skepticism and a measure of dislike. His authoritarianism brought continuity, a degree of peace, and a degree of plenitude, to worlds beyond worlds. But at a price. The price of tyranny. Sometimes it had been somewhat benevolent, sometimes it had been otherwise, such as the terrible conflicts like the Mueller Rising and the Tahn war, which, when all the rhetoric died, had been only fought to guarantee the rule of the Emperor. Ecu had long wondered whether it could be possible to correct the Eternal Emperor's excesses and still maintain the benefits.

  Could this be the chance?

  How romantic, his brain said. This, from a being whose life has been spent in the labyrinth of diplomacy, trying to ferret out true meaning from babble.

  You expect Eternal Peace to come from a meeting between a being you believe to be quite mad and a young rebel who not many years ago was that madman's assassin? Who—knowing the nature of humanity and its lust for power—will take only a short time before he sees himself as the Emperor?